


All the Things I Couldn't Say

by DaringlyDomestic



Series: Tumblr Ficlets [17]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-10
Updated: 2016-05-10
Packaged: 2018-06-07 12:56:46
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6805591
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DaringlyDomestic/pseuds/DaringlyDomestic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has always struggled to articulate how he feels. Emotions overwhelm him and he needs a physical release. It was a god-send when he discovered Morse Code, his own secret language. Very few civilians bother to learn Morse so he was practically guaranteed secrecy. </p><p>Sherlock and John have always had their own language. A language that needs very few (if any) words.</p><p>After Moriarty, everything is different. Can these unspoken language survive the fall?</p>
            </blockquote>





	All the Things I Couldn't Say

**Author's Note:**

> For @productiveprocrastinations (@artfulinanities) who asked: “Would you ever consider doing a piece where Sherlock speaks to John in Morse code when he can’t/won’t say something out loud? Like, when he needs help on a danger night, or when he wants tea, or to say ‘I love you?’” I took some creative liberties but it does have Morse Code and Sherlock’s inability to always articulate how he is feeling. Hope you enjoy!

Before the Fall, Sherlock used to tap out Morse Code all the time. It helped when he felt anxious. It was good to have a physical outlet even if nobody else picked up on his distress. He was careful about it after John moved in. John was a soldier, and it was only logical to assume that he would know Morse Code. Sherlock didn’t want him to understand those messages so he took to tapping in private only. The lack of coping mechanism made him more manic and snappish. John still finds it charming.

Somehow, Moriarty manages to ruin everything in Sherlock’s life - every single one of his small personal pleasures, even the Morse Code. Moriarty ruins that when he leaves the computer key code (beats as digits, a not-so-subtle dig at Sherlock’s coping mechanism). He can’t utilize his outlet anymore without thinking of Moriarty.

When he returns, Sherlock takes up residence at Baker Street again. This time he is alone. He spends countless hours playing his violin. He missed playing so much and there is no longer anyone to complain when he plays late into the night. Soon, the flashbacks and nightmares come, leaving Sherlock deeply distressed. He finds himself curled into a tight ball on his bathroom floor with his fists clenched painfully around thick handfuls of hair. HIs breathing is irregular and much, much too fast. He wishes he could do something, anything, he wishes he could still use the Morse Code. He feels like his flesh is too tight, on fire, so cold. He needs an outlet. He thinks about Moriarty and the link between the computer code and music gives him an idea. 

It takes several long minutes (or is it hours?) but he finally emerges from the bathroom. He walks slowly to the sitting room and picks up his violin. He gives it a few precursory tweaks, then screeches out three short loud bursts, followed by three long slides, finishing with three short bursts. An unexpected smile steals across his face as he basks in the familiar comfort of Morse Code, the physicality of the violin, and the cleansing of words he cannot say.  No one is any wiser to Sherlock’s messages than they had been before. Loud grating screeches from his violin were not uncommon even before the Fall. Mrs. Hudson doesn’t so much as bat an eye.

Months pass and Sherlock falls back into the rhythm of London again. However, his sleepless nights are much more frequent and substantially less voluntary. He spends many nights looking down on Baker St from the sitting room window and drawing obscene noises from the violin.

Almost one year to the day after Sherlock’s return, John Watson comes home to Baker Street. They do not talk about Mary, the baby, or the life that could have been. They slide easily back into playful ribbing and companionable silence. Once John’s RAMC mug is nestled back in the kitchen cupboard, Sherlock can almost pretend he never left.

The shrieking violin wakes John at two in the morning. Irritated and not at all in the mood to deal with Sherlock’s theatrics, John rolls over and tries to stifle the noise with his pillow. It doesn’t work. Just as he is about to fling off the blankets and march downstairs, awareness breaks through his sleep-addled brain. Three short bursts, three long slides, three short bursts. A long series of bursts and slides and wails follow but John’s brain is still processing those first nine notes.  Surely it must be a coincidence. Why would Sherlock be playing Morse Code on his violin? And how could he be in danger? He’s in their bloody sitting room for gods sake!

John listens a while longer and begins to pick up more of the message as his brain reengages and calls up his long-neglected knowledge of Morse. When John understands, he feels tears pricking his eyes. He honestly shouldn’t be surprised. Sherlock is the most brilliant person he knows. It only makes sense that he would have a naturally beautiful command of language, but John had never heard Sherlock compose a song with lyrics before. He wouldn’t have guessed that they would be so honest, raw, and…dare he say emotional?

As Sherlock begins the circuit again, John climbs gingerly out of bed and pads across the room, tying his dressing gown tight around himself. He eases open his door and heads toward the sitting room. He can’t stand to leave Sherlock in such distress. As he reaches the bottom of the stairs, he can see the genius outlined in the moonlight streaming through the window. He is framed in profile as he gazes down on the street below, and he seems to be so concentrated on the music that he hasn’t noticed John’s presence yet. John stands still for a few moments letting the music wash over him. The scene is so familiar, it stabs through him like a physical pain. If not for the haunting message being torn from Sherlock’s violin, John could almost believe the last three years had never happened at all. No Fall, no Mary, no baby - just Baker Street and crime scenes and dark alleyways, frantic chases, cab rides and takeaway and -

John pulls himself together and listens with an aching heart to Sherlock’s song of distress.

      _S.O.S. Help me. I am not okay._

_L_ _eaving was my choice but now you’ve gone away._

_I thought my choice was right and good. I thought I was a friend._

_All I can offer is protection and it seems I’m not enough in the end._

Sherlock’s shoulders sag as he draws the bow across the violin and abruptly stops playing. John doesn’t waste another minute. He goes to the curly-headed detective and wraps his arms around him from behind. Sherlock goes absolutely rigid and stops breathing. John keeps hold of him and mutters softly into the curls at the nape of his neck.

“You’re an idiot. A brilliant, amazing, wonderful idiot. Just astonishing really. An idiot of astronomical proportions, truly.”

Sherlock snorts and relaxes on the exhale.

“Not your most comforting speech, John. Needs work.” 

He sneers, but it’s somehow not harsh. His eyes are soft around the edges and there is a vulnerability there that John hasn’t seen before. John walks around Sherlock until he is gazing up into his face, but his hands never leave Sherlock’s sides. They just rotate around that trim body as John moves.

This is what he had missed about John Watson. God how he missed that man and his ability to understand Sherlock’s meaning without actually needing him to speak.

John’s eyes sink to deep blue pools of concern and he cocks an eyebrow.

 _What’s wrong?_ He asks.

Sherlock’s hands fidget but his eyes do not waver.

 _I am not okay. Haven’t been for a long while now._  

John wrinkles his brow and his lips turn down at that. His fingers stutter against Sherlock’s hipbones.

 _What can I do?_  

Sherlock’s hands tighten into fists and he stands ramrod straight while his eyes grow desperate and needy. He lets them.

 _Stay?_  

John’s face relaxes into a genuine boyish smile and he draws Sherlock to him. He wraps the taller man in a warm, tight embrace. 

_Of course. Of course, I’ll stay, Sherlock. As long as you’ll have me. As long as you want._


End file.
